over-under
by avaire
Summary: The crew finds Spike alive but not well (not that they're any better themselves). Post-series with a side of Faye x Spike angst. Rating subject to change.
1. greet me with goodbye

The showers on the Bebop have run out of hot water, but Jet still stands in the cold.

The droplets pound against his scalp and sting the nerve endings in his arms, torso, legs. The shivers swell then subside within a minute from first blast.

It's refreshing, this chilliness. And it's not like he's never been cold on his own ship before. He's been cold more times than he can count. Consider, for instance, the day after Spike had moved in. Jet had stumbled into the shower after a well-deserved nap and received a shock of ice down his back—a rude awakening in the form of heat used up.

"Spike!" he had snarled, but the other man had not heard. Of course not. He had been too far away, passed out, bare-chested and soggy-haired on the narrow cot in the small room Faye now calls home.

After that event, and though it took a long while, they silently learned to coordinate their dance that was showering times: Jet in the designated "morning"; Spike in the designated "night." Or anytime after he had been bloodied, blown up.

Consider also the day Miss Valentine had moved in, the way Jet had done the exact same thing he had when Spike first moved in and felt the exact same cubes of ice tumble down his spine. Sadly there was no coordinating with that woman. She did as she pleased. So cold became a constant in Jet's life.

As for Ed…well, did that kid even shower? Jet could never tell. She had bounced around the Bebop like a bubble that could not be popped. Ever present, afloat. Too far to burst but too close to ignore.

Now two of the three had vanished. Ed had wandered off on Earth. Spike had wandered off to do something very selfless and very stupid and very brave on Mars. Jet could respect that.

Yeah.

He respects that.

As he lathers his hands, one calloused, one smooth, with the little soap he could coax out of the neon orange bottle decorated in green letters screaming, "_so luxurious!_" (a purchase of Faye's, no doubt), he thinks about just _how much _he respects that.

Spike had his burdens to bear. He went to deal with them. And that was four days ago. It has been four days of radio silence.

So, heaven, rest his soul. May you rest his broken, haunted soul. He was a lonely one, that boy. Lonely little Spike, meandering onto the Bebop, coming and going, but never _gone_ gone 'til—

Ugh.

Jet clenches his jaw and breathes out through his nose. Leans toward the wall to avoid the trickle of water scurrying down his cheeks, down the length of his neck.

Goddamned cowboys. Never mind that he's one of them. His own demons, vast and heavily armed, have long died out, the smaller ones buried alive. But Spike…he couldn't leave 'em alone, could he? So now he's died too.

Which is a good reason to put the comm away, Jet thinks. Who's going to call him? Not Faye. She hasn't left her room since Day One. So why does he still have the damned communicator out?

Even in the shower room the thing rests on a bench just out of the water's reach. A hop, skip, and a jump away. Jet tells himself it's to make sure he'll get news as it arises, y'know? Some confirmation or obituary. Or maybe even something hopeful.

He tries not to think about that last possibility too much. It's been four days of radio silence. The possibility of hope died at the end of Day Three.

Yet he can't bring himself to tuck the device away in some drawer or back pocket. One can never know…

_Beep_.

Reverie broken. He starts because the sound is familiar, is frightening; is the comm.

Jet stumbles from the water, which has grown warmer with each passing second, and curls wrinkly-skinned fingers around the communicator. His thumb pushes hard upon the talk button. White noise crackles before the last voice he'd expect to hear again squeaks out,

"Jet-person!"

"…Ed?" He blinks. And blinks again. "Ed."

"That's me!"

"Right, of course! Ed! Er, what are you doing, Ed? Why are you calling? What's wrong? Where are you?"

"Edward is at the hospital."

Jet's pulse picks up speed, his throat clenching. "H-Hospital? Are you hurt?"

"No, no!" She giggles in that fairy sparkles kind of way. "Edward came to see somebody."

"See somebody? Who?"

"Spike-person, of course!"

Jet breathes in for the first time in four days.

Radio silence no more.

* * *

_A/N: I love Cowboy Bebop, but I'm ambivalent toward its ending. So here's my attempt to continue the story because, though it's been over for years, I'm not ready to let go of these characters. I'm greedy like that._


	2. baby came home today

Faye doesn't think much anymore. What's the point in thinking anyway? It's painful. It's all so wonderfully painful.

She lies on her bed and lies to herself; to God, to all of creation (if such a thing exists—they could just be nothingness, you know, yet no one would think anything of it. Everyone'd just go about their daily lives, eating, singing, sleeping. Praying. All in the void of Empty, lounging on the corner of Hollow and Pointless.)

Although…when the fetal position becomes home base, some part of her, the part that's evolved to fight and snap back, screams _drama queen! grow up! get over it!_ Get over it the way she's gotten over a lack of self and the sudden regaining of self and the attempted forgetting of self and the remembrance and inevitable loathing of self.

Yet she can't bring herself to care even one nanogram of an iota. She does not care that she looks and feels weak, like a damsel in distress: trapped in an ivory tower, hair too long and too heavy to cut.

She doesn't do much these days. Just lies there and lies. For four days.

Four fucking days.

Her eyes snap shut as she attempts meditation for the fifth time in an hour. The quiet works for all of twelve point three seconds before she spies green in her periphery. Now it's in her line of sight. Stupid green. Tufts of green above, strands falling below. Into his eyes but not brushed aside.

Eyes she had grown accustomed to through the screen of smoke. And when they had shared glances without cigarettes' interference, she had thought them odd, disconcerting. Too uncomfortable to hold for extended periods of time. Now she wants to slap herself for how obvious it should have been. She's a smart girl. She should have seen that they didn't match.

Well, hadn't matched. _Had_ not, because he's dead, and grammar's important when you talk about the dearly departed.

She sighs and rolls onto her side. How did Spike win this war? His soul has perished from the universe, but he fucking _won_ the war. Faye can't leave him alone and vice versa. Even in the afterlife he taunts her with his aloofness, his presence that is not really present. His body has stopped functioning, but he still hogs the precious subconscious space that is the back of her mind.

Hair a mess, make-up less, a growling stomach with no complaints?

Yeah, Spike won.

And all that humiliation, too. Oh, the humiliation of begging him to stay. That stings the most, and she shudders to think it actually happened. She shouldn't have given him the opportunity to slide in that smooth exit line, that spiel about not going there to die.

_Going to find out if I'm really alive. _

Blech. Shame, shame Faye. Bad Faye.

Bad Faye.

She licks her dry lips and tastes old salt. It's almost rusty, like blood. Sour too, like tangerines. A thin orange peel.

Oh.

.

.

.

Shit.

She should shower. She should shower right now. The niggling in her navel jolts her awake, and her head spins when she realizes that she can't stew in misery a second longer. Her room's a hovel of sweat and unchanged underwear, and her nose finally gets the message.

Besides, Faye Valentine can't perish because he's perished. Think of Julia. Did she die when Spike left?

Faye can't be sure, obviously, since she doesn't know the whole story of Romiette and Julio, but she can guess that no, no Julia did not die when Spike left. She lived to tell her tale before dying for real in his arms. Probably.

(So picturesque!)

…Not that she _wants_ to _be_ Julia. Just the thought of being her, blonde and catsuited—it's toxic, it's poison.

And the l-word? For Spike Fucking Spiegel? No way is she touching that again, not with a ten foot pole. She buries it six feet under heavy soil as she gathers her dirty laundry, chucking shirts into a scratchy sack. She even chucks a few clean cotton skirts for good measure. Cleanse everything. Start afresh.

Lemony fresh.

She trips out the door, dragging the load behind her. The lights in the corridor are blinding, gasp-inducing. She makes for the bathroom because they don't have a washing machine on board, and they're still orbiting Mars, so she'll have to do every garment by hand. No matter. She could use a strong pain in her back, a dull ache in her forearms. The scent of soap. Maybe humming.

Two steps to the door, and Jet steps out, water dripping from his everything and everywhere. Faye's too shocked to avert her eyes, too shocked to register the scars and the contours, the towel around his waist, because he suddenly says something, jaw moving, tongue whiplash—

"Spike's alive."

Her hands let go of the bag, which tumbles to the floor and spills her lingerie. And not the cheap stuff, mind you. The lacy stuff.

For special occasions.

* * *

_A/N: __Thanks for reading/reviewing/following. Chapter title from "Baby Came Home" by The Neighbourhood._


	3. deep calls unto deep

He's standing at the edge of the dock. Seagulls, all flapping wings and noisy, float overhead. They wait for him to wait for himself to jump into the rising water, swelling. Like the casual melody of a dank club on Ganymede and ice cubes jingling in a glass of something heavy.

Bourbon.

Julia hates bourbon. She prefers a good gin or scotch: the older the better. At least eighteen. A taste cultivated in the luxury of bloodied hands and cuts. So many cuts.

Standing by the pool table, cue in hand, he isn't much older than the amber rolling down her throat. He just happens to be looking at yellow when she glances over her shoulder once and only once, stunning him into a bumbling, emasculating loss. Vicious chuckles, but Spike is still young enough to be more curious than afraid.

After all, he never loses to anyone at anything, so with this failure she carves her mark into the stuttering of his empty, engine heart.

_Fall, begin,_ it says.

Years later—

—Fall, end.

Winter, begin. Here he stands on the dock. Pathetic. He's waiting again, but he can't turn his head. What a drag; No Smoking sign. His vision swims with shades of blue, red, blue, red, while his hands tremble the way you're not supposed to tremble. (In pain.)

She must be around here somewhere.

And he's not wrong when he hears the footsteps and the husky voice, commanding and such and such.

Spike.

Yes?

Turn around.

I can't.

Spike.

Yes?

Turn around.

I _can't_. Ant. Small, stomped on and spit upon. Forgotten, ignored, nuisance. Exists only to serve his queen on her hill.

Spike.

Yes?

Turn around.

He struggles. Limbs feel like concrete. Breathing hard. The seagulls' squawks muffle his hearing, and he's got a gag in his mouth.

I'll wait, someone mutters, though he can't be sure who's spoken. It might have been him, might have been her. Might have been someone else entirely. All he hears is seagulls, like angels singing and feathers falling from a crumbling cathedral catastrophe.

And then there's a splash, and it's the sweetest sound he's ever known.

* * *

_A/N: I promise to all you shippers out there, myself included, that I'll get to the Faye/Spike drama soon. Chapter title from "Diving for Hearts" by Corinne Bailey Rae._


End file.
